


For the Dancing and the Dreaming

by SurrealAsFuck



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abandonment, Depression, F/M, I hope, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, References to Depression, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurrealAsFuck/pseuds/SurrealAsFuck
Summary: Because Surreal deserved better.Its been a long time since I've read the Black Jewel Series. Forgive me if names are misspelled or details are wrong/off.





	1. The Spiral Downward

**Author's Note:**

> A fan-fiction I had to write, because Surreal deserved better, dammit.

Surreal wasn’t sure when she began noticing the stares. Of course she had always known they were there. She knew, on a visceral level, just how odd it was to be seen with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan as he carried their child. Their child. Not Witch’s. 

Everyone knew about Daemon and Jaenelle. They knew of his love for her, how after Jaenelle turned old and grey, he had still loved her as if she were no older than twenty. They knew how he had grieved, bitterly, during the year she had allowed him. They knew how, even after his year of grieving was over, he never truly returned to his old self, and had retreated into his work, only existing when his family came to visit him, only ever living when holding his nephew and niece in his arms.

So she knew that seeing Daemon with her, having a family with her, having married her, was odd, especially in the early days, when Jaenelle Saetien was still small and pink and didn’t resemble anyone other than countless babies before her. But the stares continued even as Jaenelle Saetien, Little Jaenelle they called her, grew older. And Surreal knew why. Little Jaenelle looked nothing like her. 

Surreal watched, along with everyone else, as her daughter grew and began to resemble her father greatly, with her dark complexion and even darker hair that curled slightly. She watched as her daughter began to resemble another woman. Someone who had died almost two years before her conception. What with eyes so blue she could drown in them, a light smattering of freckles across her nose, and a face that looked all too familiar even after so many years of having not seen it, she knew she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Little Jaenelle didn’t even have a delicate point to her ears, as she should have had, being a quarter Dae al Mon.

Most days, especially as Little Jaenelle’s personality began to develop, and she would do something that was just so  _ Jaenelle _ , Surreal wondered if the child she had birthed was even hers. Those dark, sinister doubts didn’t really begin to take hold until Little Jaenelle made her first offering to the darkness. 

Little Jaenelle had always called Daemon Papa, like her namesake before her had addressed her adoptive father, and had from her very first utterance called Surreal Mother or Mum, sometimes Mummy if she wanted something. When she came away from her offering, hours later than all the other children, with no Jewel, Surreal had been ready to rip the throats out of those who had started to mutter unkind things about her daughter. And when Daemon had gone to console his, he assumed, disappointed daughter, she had merely smiled and said that she would have to wait to get her jewel, when everyone had left, as it would confuse them. When Daemon asked her who told her that, she had said one word. 

“Mama,” she had uttered. Surreal didn’t think she was supposed to hear that, but she did.  _ Mama.  _ Mama had told her. Of course. 

After that day, Surreal had began to to drift slowly away from her husband and her daughter, not that she could really call her that. Little Jaenelle wasn’t hers. Not really. She had merely been the receptacle for the child her friend and husband couldn’t have. A surrogate, a broodmare. Not a mother. Not  _ Mama. _

What had Jaenelle asked her before she died? What her greatest wish was? She had answered immediately. A child, like the special one she had known so long ago, to call her own and to give her the loving family that the other never had. She supposed Jaenelle had given her that wish. The child she bore was certainly special, as she had been given Twilight’s Dawn, a jewel only her namesake had worn, that had disappeared after her death, and reappeared in the small, delicate hands of her daughter.  _ Not hers. _ Maybe the web of dreams was woven wrong. Maybe another wish had gotten in the way. Maybe Jaenelle’s last regret was never giving Daemon the family he had always wanted. Maybe it was Daemon’s wish. 

Either way, as the days wended on, she knew with a growing, aching weight that the child she had conceived with the man she loved dearly, had carried, had birthed with great pain and fear, had nurtured and loved, was not hers. At least, she wasn’t supposed to be. And that hurt. Like a knife in the gut, twisting endlessly, a pain that only grew as the stares grew, that got worse the more her daughter took after her namesake and not  _ her _ . 

Perhaps the worst part, Surreal thought, was that everyone else knew it, too. Strangers on the streets, members of the former inner circle, family, hell even Daemon had started at some of the very  _ Jaenelle _ -like things his daughter did. Of course he would never admit it to himself. He could be surprisingly dense. But Surreal knew. And so did everyone else. And they stared. And they whispered. Those whispers haunted her in her dreams, chasing her from sleep and into the adjoining bathroom to retch what little food she had managed to keep down from dinner into the toilet.

She stopped sharing a bed with her husband in his quarters. The consorts chambers. The adjoining door had been locked for years. They didn’t talk about the Queen’s chambers attached to his. They didn’t talk about how he never moved out of the Consorts chambers after her death. And they didn’t talk about the times when Surreal would wake up alone in bed, a dim light spilling light from under the adjoining door.

Surreal slept in her old room, from the years when things were simpler, when she was more sure of her role in life. When she didn’t want to take one of her many stilettos and drive them into her heart because surely it would hurt less than the ache that was omnipresent. She often found herself awake at night, part of her hoping her husband would come to her and climb into bed with her and make love to her like he used to, the other part dreading such a thing. 

She was sure Daemon loved her, at least a little. She saw it in the way he looked at her. It was...fondness. Yes, he was quite fond of her. After all she had given him the child of his dreams, the child the person he loved most in life could not. But it was not the same. And perhaps it was selfish of her to want from him what he had only given to one other person. Perhaps it was foolish to hope for such a thing. But was this what her life was going to be? Loving a man who could never love her the same way, raising a child that looked nothing like her, living under the same roof  _ she _ had once ruled, like some gross imposter, living a life that was not meant to be hers?

She stopped eating dinner with the family. Oh, Lucivar had put up a token protest, as was expected of him, even threatened to drag her kicking and screaming to the dinner table. But she had called him on his bluff. And for once, it was a bluff. She knew dinners were awkward with her seated next to Daemon, barely picking at her food as everyone else tried to keep up a strained conversation. He knew it, too. And she knew he knew it. So he let her be.

It wasn’t until Surreal stopped seeing Little Jaenelle that Daemon got involved.  _ Of course _ , she thought bitterly, he would only notice that something was wrong when it affected his daughter.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked her one night as she sat in the garden  _ she _ had made, smoking a cigarette, staring at the statue of a sleeping woman, a large predatory cat hovering over her, claws extended. To outsiders, it would look like the panther was about to attack the sleeping woman. To those that knew, that saw how the woman’s hand curled lightly around the other forepaw resting by her head, that could see the head of the beast was tilted away from the woman, toward an unseen enemy, it was a symbol, and a message.

She took a deep drag and looked up at her husband, if she could even be bothered to call him that anymore. Their marriage was pretty much a sham, anyway. Just like the rest of her life.

“I don’t follow,” she drawled, grinding the butt into a crystal ashtray next to her on the rough marble that made up the wide veranda. 

“You daughter is inside, crying because her mother walked away from her after showing her something she thought her mother would like.” Surreal looked away. Yes, Little Jaenelle had shown her something amazing, and Surreal had been impressed, delighted even, when she had shown it to her, for about half a second. After all, she had only seen witchlight that glimmered so many colors it threw dancing lights over the walls once before. Then the pain had ripped through her gut and more importantly, her heart, so swift and strong she had to walk away. Otherwise she would have broken down. 

“Well?” he demanded, furious. Of course he didn’t give a shit what a multi-colored witchlight would mean to Surreal, or how it would make her feel. He only cared that she had hurt his daughter’s feelings by not being delighted. Well, excuse her for not acting just fucking  _ tickled _ while the dagger twisted even deeper.

“What do you want me to say, Daemon?” she sighed, pulling another cigarette out and lighting it with a tongue of witchfire before taking another deep drag.

“I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on with you, Surreal. You’ve been sleeping in the guest wing on the other side of the house for the past four months and you stopped eating dinner with the family for the past two, and now you won’t even acknowledge your daughter? What in hell’s name is wrong with you? It’s like you don’t care anymore, or you’re trying to get away from everyone.”  _ So he had noticed _ , she thought, taking another drag of her cigarette, reveling in the slight burn in her throat and lungs as the smoke permeated her tissues before letting it out in an acrid cloud of smoke. She watched as the purplish smoke wafted away into the night and disappeared.

“What do you care, Daemon?” she responded, sounding, to herself anyway, tired and more than a little hurt. To him, she probably sounded like a bitch. She was good at that. Perhaps she should start acting like an intolerable bitch, and then maybe he might get rid of her instead of keeping her around. The darkness only knew why he bothered. It wasn’t like he sought her out these past four months.

“I care that you’re being cruel to our daughter, that you haven’t spoken to anyone for weeks, and that you haven’t so much as looked at or acknowledged me for longer than that.” She rolled her eyes up at him, so much taller than her from her spot on the ground. 

“Have you ever stopped to think of the  _ why _ of that, husband?” Another drag of her cigarette, this time blowing the smoke directly in his face. His golden eyes grew dark as the smoke wafted into his face and around his head before dissipating.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he bit out.  _ Touched a nerve,  _ she thought. 

“It means, Daemon, that I’m tired and don’t want to have this conversation. Please leave me alone.” She wasn’t lying. She felt so tired, so bone weary that all she ever wanted to do was sleep. It was so hard to get out of bed, every day growing more and more difficult to even wake up. Like her body was shutting down, curling up, fading away. Even now, she could feel the darkness creeping in, and not the darkness of the night. The darkness of oblivion, caressing her cheeks, nudging her shoulder, goading her, tormenting her with its presence.

Daemon watched her for a long, calculating moment before turning on his heel and walking inside. Surreal was half surprised he left without so much as a token protest. The darkness crept closer, a wistful sigh in her ear. She turned away from his retreating form and looked again at the statue.

“What did I do, to live such a miserable existence? Whore, assassin, and now miserable fraud? Is it so much to ask for a shred of happiness? To have even half the love that he gave you? Or am I destined to live off crumbs of affection from a man who was never mine and raise the child you should have had? Is that all I’m good for?” The only sounds that answered her was the sighing of the wind and the distant sounds of chirping bugs. 

The darkness shrouding her like a cowl, she put out her cigarette, picked up the crystal ashtray, and went inside. She did not see the dark form of her husband only a few feet away, shielded by a black powered sight shield. She did not hear his pained sigh, nor did she hear his soft apology at drifted away like the sigh of the wind.

Once back in her room, she plunked the ashtray down on a worn wooden coffee table and headed to her en-suite bathroom, stripping out of her clothes as she did so, leaving them to pile haphazardly on the carpet. Two robes hung on the door, a faded, threadbare red silk robe she’d had since before she’d even become an assassin, and a much newer, unused black cotton robe that Daemon had gifted her one Winsol. She pulled the red robe off its hook and wrapped its comforting weight around her. Jaenelle would have wore the cotton robe over the silk robe any day. Surreal didn’t think Daemon even knew she hated the feel of fluffy cotton on her skin, preferring the smooth slide of silk, like water on her skin to that of the warm, soft cotton.

Turning the knobs on the tub, Surreal made the water as hot as she could stand it and waited as the tub began to fill, steam floating up, cleaning her airways of the toxic smoke she had inhaled earlier. Once the tub was full she turned the water off and let her robe drop, revelling in the cool slide as the garment dropped to the floor. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she winced. 

Surreal used to be curvy, in an athletic sort of way. She’d always loved how her body had looked so long and lithe like a cat, while still managing to look soft. As a whore, it had made her popular among many men. As an assassin it had made an ingenious disguise. Now, it was skeletal. She couldn’t remember when the last time she’d eaten was, not that she could have kept down the food even if she tried to eat. She dimly wondered if anyone cared that she was starting to look like a cadaver. Maybe they hoped she would just waste away and stop existing so that things could go back to some semblance of normal.

Turning away from her reflection, she slid into the scalding water, reveling in the burn. It was better than the ever present dagger in the heart that twisted continuously without end. She stayed like that, burning, aching, feeling desperately like she was living a lie, pretending that everything was fine, not that she was doing a particularly good job at that, acting like she didn’t want to die every waking moment.

And that was the truth of it. She wanted to die. Or at least she found death preferable to living the way she was. If she could run she would. But where would she go? There was nowhere in Khaeleer she could go that Daemon could not find her. She had an apartment that she used to share with Rainier before he died. Another twist of the dagger. She hadn’t thought of Rainier in a long time. She hadn’t realized that she still missed her friend. 

Even if she went back to her apartment, Daemon would expect her to go there. Plus there were too many memories there. Too many fond memories she didn’t want to drag up and taint with this darkness. There were a few cottages scattered about the realm that the family owned. She could flee to any one of those, but again, she would eventually be found, and guilted into going back to her hellish existence at Ebon Askavi, the Black Mountain. 

So where, then? To Terreille? She snorted at that. She’d lived most of her life in Terreille, in the corrupted blood societies that tainted that realm, and was certain she could have gone back to living there, even if she had died a little inside having to go back to being a whore and assassin. It would still be better than this. 

_ But its not the same anymore _ , she thought. Jaenelle had purged the realms of the taint of Dorothea and Hekatah, two witches hell bent on destroying the blood. She had no idea what Terreille was like now. Whether or not it would have gone back to being corrupt, or if it had begun to heal, like Khaeleer. She had to admit, a part of her was curious. She still had property there, under her name. And she was sure there were a few places Daemon didn’t know about. 

Like that little townhouse in Vienne, or the small farm in Cythrea, or the river house in the forest in Tacea. She was positive that he knew nothing about those places, as she had never told him, or anyone else, that she owned property outside of the major cities. She was even sure she still had the deeds for all of the properties hidden away in the small space between space all the blood could access with their craft. 

The bathwater was cool now, so Surreal stood up, pulling the plug with her toe to let the water drain. Toweling off, she began to really contemplate leaving. The darkness receded a little bit as she donned her silk robe. She had to admit, it was a nicer alternative to killing herself. 

And there was a revelation. She didn’t want to die. Not truly. She felt like dying every second she spent living this lie, but at the prospect of leaving? Of living her life on her own terms? For once her future didn’t end in a question mark, or a gruesome image of her body being found, hours, maybe even days after her blood had soaked the carpet and her spirit became nothing but a whisper in the darkness. There would be no Hell or Demon-dead existence for her, no having to explain why she chose death over living with her husband and daughter.

But if she left. If she went to Terreille, changed her name, her face, her body, took up a new life somewhere else, she could actually be herself. And wasn’t that ironic? That she felt like an imposter being herself, but at the thought of being someone else, she felt nothing but freedom? 

Dazed, she made her way into her bedroom and let her robe slide to the floor. She climbed into bed, slid between the silk sheets, loving the way the fabric caressed her body, and fell back limply, staring up at the dark ceiling, deliberating. 

She wanted to leave. She was going to leave one way or another and could not continue living as a cuckold, feeling the stares on her back as her daughter resembled and acted like her husband and his former wife, but not her. She could stand it no longer, the feeling like she was drowning, like the darkness was pressing in all around her, threatening her life and her sanity. She would not live off of scraps of love from a man who was not made to love her. It was either leave to Terreille or leave to be a whisper in the darkness. And given the choice, she would choose Terreille. With that decision made, Surreal turned on her side, and for the first time in years, she slept soundly.


	2. A Gleam of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surreal searches for answers. And finds hope gleams like a beacon of gold.

The next morning, Surreal woke with a purpose. She was going to leave. But she needed to prepare first. There were things that she needed to take care of before she left. Like, explaining to Little Janelle and Daemon why she was leaving. She frowned. Better to leave a note than confront that head on. If she gave Daemon even a tiny hint that she was going to leave, he would watch her like a hawk and she would have no privacy to do what needed to be done, let alone just let her walk out and leave.

The next thing that needed to be done was figure out a way to change her features without others, especially of the blood, being able to tell she had artificially altered her looks. Ebon Askavi had plenty of libraries with endless subjects, but there was one subject in particular that she would need to research. There had to be a Craft book that had a way to change features, preferably permanently, that would not tip off other members of the blood that she was not as she appeared.

As an assassin, she had learned fast that a disguise could not be created via Craft without others noticing. But Ebon Askavi was a veritable goldmine of lost or unknown knowledge, especially in regards to Craft. She would try the library first.

After hours of searching the many libraries in Ebon Askavi, without pause, Surreal had to concede that the spell she needed either did not exist, or that her family, in their thousands of years of collecting knowledge, did not have it.  
She went to bed that night feeling the everpresent despair that lingered in the back of her mind start to grow and snuff out the glimmer of hope she had carved out for herself. If she could not find a way to permanently alter her features, her chances of leaving and staying hidden would be zero. She did not sleep well that night.

The next morning, Surreal took breakfast away from the family, like usual, although she didn’t eat so much as push her food around to make it look like it had been eaten. She avoided everyone, and was not sure whether she should feel sad or grateful that no one tried to look for her. Whatever her mixed feelings, it suited her purpose. She was looking through an older wing of the keep, lower down, actually below ground, and largely closed off. Still, she figured there might be an old library somewhere, perhaps with dusty old tomes with some forgotten spell that she could use to her advantage.

Surreal opened every door in the wing, her craft easily unlocking them, as they had been simply locked with a key and not craft. However, most of the rooms were old bedrooms, sitting rooms, studies sans books, and what looked to be an old nursery with an attached room that possibly served as a lessons room. She was quickly coming upon the last of the doors and her hope was trickling away like sand in an hourglass that was almost full, faster and faster, counting down until... What?

Until she gave up on what amounted to a shot in the darkness? Until she realized that this whole search was pointless and she just gave in to that creeping despair that clutched her heart and tainted her soul? No. She had to try. Because she didn’t want to waste away into nothingness. She didn’t want to live the rest of her life feeling like an imposter. She _refused_.

As she rounded a corner she felt...something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was like an itch she couldn’t scratch, a niggle in the back of her mind, an almost recognition. She slowly realized that the feeling was akin to _deja vu_. She had the feeling as if she had been here, standing in this corridor, long ago.

She let the feeling consume her and her vision…shifted. The dusty, gray, stone walls laeden with cobwebs changed to gleaming black obsidian, like some of the other wings in the keep. Lamps were lit with witchlight at regular intervals and a plush carpet had been laid on the stone floor. There was not a speck of dust in sight

Surreal had the distinct feeling that she was not herself. More like, she was seeing through the eyes of someone else, long, _long_ ago.

Not-Surreal stepped forward on the plush carpet, her stride sure, unhurried, and measured as she walked toward a door on the left. Behind the door was a craftroom, not for teaching, but for experimenting. Jannelle had had a workroom similar to this one, for similar purposes.

On the opposite wall of the room was a long, black, marble workbench, littered with various papers, ingredients, gems, orbs, vials, and books. The left wall was dominated by an imposing, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf overflowing with books, scrolls, and loose paper. The right wall held a small nook with comfortable couches at an angle so that those occupying them could speak to each other, while also viewing the entire room. A low table sat in front of the couches which held more papers, books, scrolls, a tea set with half-eaten biscuits and sandwiches, and a large orb, currently being used as a paperweight.

Not-Surreal made her way over to the bench to a small cauldron she hadn’t noticed before. In it, a bluish green liquid burbled under a low tongue of witchfire. The scent given off by it was sweet, almost cloying. Not-Surreal hummed in displeasure before reaching over to a stack of vials filled with ingredients. Surreal watched through Not-Surreal’s, eyes as she searched for the ingredient she needed before finding it and measuring out a small amount. Not-Surreal slowly incorporated the ingredient all while stirring, and Surreal watched as the blue-green liquid slowly turned gold. The scent changed as well, to something more subtle and spicy.

Apparently satisfied with the change, Not-Surreal moved over to the bookshelf and scanned the titles for a moment before making a small noise of pleasure and plucking a thin journal from the many volumes crammed into the bookshelf. She turned to one of the couches and settled down. In the journal were hand-written notes on various experiments and their varying degrees of success. Not-Surreal skimmed through the entries before she reached something that resembled more of a diary entry rather than research notes.

_The dream occurred again. It went, again, like the other dreams. I’m here, in Ebon Askavi, but I am not me. Not Helaenah. I am dying, body and soul. Every day is torture, every day is like a knife in my belly, constantly twisting. Those I love look at me as if I am an imposter, stealing the life of someone else. I myself have the feeling of being an imposter. The crushing weight of despair has me wanting to close my eyes and never wake up._

_I do not know what this dream means, or even who this dream is about, but I do know, whoever it is, is suffering. I know that their suffering will be ended in one of two ways, leaving those that would let them suffer and finding peace in a life renewed, or by becoming a whisper in the darkness. I do not know how I know this, but I do, deep, in my bones. I also know that I was meant to have this dream so that I could help whoever it is that is suffering._

_This is no ordinary dream. This will be a dream-made-flesh. It is a call for help across time and as Witch, it is my duty to help this tortured soul._

_If they are to truly leave behind their torment and find peace in a new life, they will need a new vessel. One those who may wish to chain her will not recognize, but will still hold the Self. The chalice must be reshaped, but not shattered, so as the Self will not be lost._  
_But how to reforge what has already been shaped, forged, hardened, and honed? How to remake the body, but keep the soul the same?_

Not Surreal turned the page, and another entry started, this one looking a little more like research notes.

_It is difficult, to say the least, at creating a piece of Craft that cannot be humanely tested, and which success is purely hypothetical. Nevertheless, I think I have come up with something that might work._  
_Instead of reforging the vessel, I surmised that reshaping the vessel down to the smallest particle would suffice. I have been able to test out this theory on small mundane objects._

_My first test involved a small wooden block. Using Craft, I was able to change the wooden block to a glass sphere. I was able to do this by breaking up the wooden block into its smallest parts, so small that the unaided eye could not see them, reshaping those parts, and fitting them back together to form something new. It worked for a moment before the orb disappeared altogether. I do not know why this event occurred, but it will not deter me._

_My second test involved a marble statuette, no taller than my hand is long. Using the same method, I was able to change the composition and shape of the statuette, from a marble woman to a golden man. The result was the same as the first, and the statuette disappeared after a few moments. It seems that by changing the shape and composition of something, it renders that object unstable and that instability causes it to disappear. I do not know where the objects go, but aside from the initial disappearance, I could sense no other disturbance._

_My third test proved much more insightful. Instead of changing the composition, I merely changed the shape of the object, again by breaking down the object to its smallest parts and rearranging the parts, but still keeping those parts the same. This time, the object did not disappear. It is possible to surmise that by changing the shape of the smallest parts and then rearranging them, this reshaping renders the object unstable. More tests will have to be conducted to confirm the validity of this hypothesis._

Another page, a date at the top, several weeks after the second entry.

_I have tested my theory again and again, over and over, on many different objects of varying sizes and materials. All have succeeded if the composition is left the same. If the base...elements of each object are the same, and only the shape has changed, the object does not disappear._

_From there, I realized that the person who will need to change, will be made of many different elements. For the body is much different than a block of wood or a marble statue, or a glass vase. At first I did not know if the change would be possible, as changing two different materials while subsequently maintaining their composition would be difficult, if not impossible to accomplish without complete focus and strenuous control. Then, with some chagrin, I realized I was over-thinking the whole process. After all, wood, broken down to its smallest components was made up of many different elements. I merely had to think of the material as the whole, wood, marble, glass, steel, brass. Skin would stay as skin, hair would remain as hair, nails as nails, and so on._

_I am ashamed to say I tested this theory on a living thing. A mouse, scurrying down the hall was my test subject. At the start of the experiment, the mouse started out as a small brown mouse, with a cream colored tail, and black eyes. Using the methods in my previous experiments, I was able to change the mouse’s fur to an odd mottled color, not quite brown, but not quite not, either. Once I moved onto other parts, well, that was where the experiment went wrong. The...materials, would not hold their shape after the change. The mouse did not survive. I will have to rework my theory before I try again on another living thing._

From here, several pages worth of studies, all on mice, rats, birds, and so on, each trying something different, something new that wasn’t thought of before, each experiment appearing to succeed before the end result was the same. The new forms would not stay together. Witch, determined to see this dream-made-flesh find their happiness as a changed being, continued in her experiments, each coming closer and closer to the answer that eluded her, but all managing to fail at the last.

Surreal never found out if Witch had succeeded. As abruptly as the vision had come on, it faded, sucked away from her, leaving her breathless and shaky. She looked around and blinked, several times. She knew what door she stood in front of, knew what the layout of the room would look like, where the drafty spots were, despite being far underground.

Steeling herself, trying so hard to push back the growing fear that that incarnation if Witch had never found a solution and that she was wasting her time, Surreal twisted the knob. And felt something inside the walls, in side her, sigh and click. A ward. How long had it been since this room had been opened? Since Helaenah? The vision had not _felt_ that long ago, but it had to have been, if the conditions of the hall outside were anything to go by.

Opening the door, Surreal found the room void of everything that had been in her vision. Everything except the black marble counter, now pocked and crumbling, no longer smooth and gleaming, and a bowl. A bowl filled with golden liquid, the scent warm and spicy and _other_. It was the same liquid that had been in her vision. Was this Helaenah’s answer? For a moment, the despair that had grown and blanketed her like a cloak lifted and she felt light, incredibly light. Her head spun, and darkness enveloped her.


	3. A Reason, Not an Excuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daemon comes to a realization and makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, but I thought it would give a bit of insight on Daemon's lack of attention.

Daemon Sadi sat in his study, nursing a glass of alcohol, swirling the amber liquid around idly. His brother, Lucivar stood across from him, leaning back against Daemon’s desk, arms crossed, wings flared slightly, ready for a fight.

“What’s going on, Bastard?” Lucivar questioned, guarded, trying to hide his worry, and curiosity.

It was no secret that something was wrong with Daemon and Surreal’s marriage. It was also glaringly obvious that their daughter, Little Jaenelle, looked and acted like a child from Daemon and Jaenelle would have, or should have. It was like, if a witch slept with another man, and the offspring resembled the other man, not her husband. Only, it was unheard of for a witch to carry another witch’s child.

“To be perfectly honest. I don’t know. I overheard her the other day, on the veranda,” He took a sip of alcohol before continuing, “She thinks...she thinks that Jaenelle Saetien isn’t hers. She thinks...that I don’t love her. Or better yet that I can’t love her.”

“Do you love her?”

“Of course I do! She’s been my friend for years and she’s the mother of my child, and my wife!”

“Yes, but do you love her like you loved...love Jaenelle? If Jaenelle were still alive would you have even thought about Surreal in any way other than that she was family?” Daemon frowned.

“I…no.” How eloquent. “But Jaenelle isn’t...alive. She’s gone. And we...She gave birth to my child.”

“It sounds like you’re with her out of obligation,” Lucivar stated, pouring a finger of amber liquid into a crystal glass.

“Does it matter?” Lucivar snorted.

“Of course it does. Look at it from her perspective. She knows how devoted you were to Jaenelle, still are, if you’re being honest with yourself. Think how she must feel, marrying a man who stated that he was made to be the lover of another woman, bearing his child, sleeping in the suite he and his former wife used to sleep in. Taking her spot within the family. Wouldn’t you feel like a fraud? Wouldn’t you feel like you stole her place? Like you were a poor replacement?

“Wouldn’t you feel sick to your stomach knowing that the man you’re with wasn’t meant for you? That he could never love you the way he loved his former wife? Wouldn’t you want that kind of love and devotion? Wouldn’t you hate that you wanted it from him? Like you were betraying the memory of your friend, whom you also loved? Don’t you think that would fuck you up, even a little?

“And to top it off, how would you feel if you looked at your daughter, the one reason you and the man you loved even got together, and every time you looked at her, you saw your husband and his former wife? How would you feel if the daughter you wanted so badly, turned out more like your husband’s former wife, and everyone noticed and gossiped behind your back and speculated? Don’t you think you would feel like some gross imposter? Because I would.” Lucivar drained his glass and thunked it on the table.

“What should I do, Prick?” Daemon asked, his voice quiet, and for once, unsure of himself. He would be lying if he said he didn’t notice Surreal’s change, how the brash, opinionated, dangerous woman turned quiet, timid, and cold. He remembered their conversation on the veranda, how tired she seemed, how pale and thin. And her plea to Jaenelle’s statue when she thought he was gone. She seemed...broken. He had hated it, hated knowing that he was somehow the cause.

He loved little Jaenelle, fiercely, more than he thought he was capable of. He had never been a father before and he had been terrified. Elated, excited, and happier than he had been for years, but terrified. He remembered feeling grateful to Surreal, for bringing his daughter into the world. Fleetingly, melancholic that this daughter had not been borne by Jaenelle. He had quickly discarded that notion.

He had many happy years with Jaenelle and knew she would die well before he even reached two thousand, and he had resigned himself to that, but that didn’t mean her death still killed a part of him. To have been gifted a daughter that had been named for her and his father and reminded him of her, he had been grateful, and his grief has eased, became less overwhelming, and allowed him to look back on those years fondly, rather than with despair.

In truth, Little Jaenelle had been a blessing, and had allowed him to overcome his grief and find a new purpose. He had not thought Surreal would feel differently. He had not realized that she might feel less than thrilled that Little Jaenelle resembled her namesake and acted similarly. He had not thought of what others might think and say and how that would affect her. And if he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t cared. He was just so focused on his daughter, on being a given a new purpose, that he had not cared what Surreal thought, because surely she should have been as happy as him. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realize that not everyone felt as he did.

He hadn’t really noticed until Little Jaenelle stated asking about her mother, wanting to know where she was, and that she wanted to show her something. Daemon hadn’t realized until then that he hadn’t spoken to or even seen her for a week. He had found her a few hours later, curled up on a sofa in some unused room, twirling a stiletto in her fingers, stopping with the dagger aimed at her heart, before twirling it again, repeating over and over, tears streaming silently down her unreadable face, lips moving faintly, murmuring something to herself.

Even after seeing that, after noting her absence from family breakfast and dinner, after she no longer slept in his bed, he had not asked her what was wrong. Because he did not want to acknowledge that she was unhappy. He wanted to cling to the golden-tinged happiness that had permeated his life. He was tired of the despair that had crept into his life after Jaenelle had died, and he was afraid of coming off that high.  
He didn’t know what to do. His distorted worldview had been shattered and he was coming to realize that he should have done something much sooner. He should have reached out to Surreal, should have tried to comfort her, assuage her fears. But he hadn’t, and now it was too late. If he tried to talk to her now, he would probably be met with anger and rejection.

And he had to ask himself. How much did he love Surreal? Sure, he was grateful to her for giving him Jaenelle Saetien, and he had loved her like family for years before they got married, but did he love her like he loved Jaenelle? He could love her romantically. Surreal was beautiful, and loyal, and caring, but she wasn’t Jaenelle. And she could never replace her. But given time, he could make room in his heart for her. He didn’t think the love would be the same as the love he felt for Jaenelle, and for him, he supposed, that could be enough. But was it enough for Surreal? And if it wasn’t, would he, could he, let her leave him?

“I think you need to talk to your wife, and listen. Really listen to what she needs. Not what you want, not whatever happy little family ideal you have in your head, but what’s best for her. Because it’s not this.” Lucivar clapped him on the shoulder and walked out of the study.

Daemon sighed and drained his glass. Time to find his wife.


	4. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surreal says goodbye.

Surreal sat in the relative privacy of her old rooms, staring intently into the gleaming, ever-swirling, golden liquid. She inhaled deeply again, something she couldn’t stop doing, and breathed in the warm, comforting, spicy scent that triggered something in her. It spoke of ancient craft, old dreams, and new hope. It whispered in her heart. She had a future. One that wasn’t uncertain, or filled with despair.

Her lip trembled and she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the unbidden reaction. It didn’t help. Her whole body trembled with emotions she had no name for. Anticipatory for sure, but whether they were positive or negative, she didn’t know. Not that she was too terribly keen on analyzing them at the moment.

Tearing her gaze from the bowl, she stood up and moved to the small pile of clothes, books, weapons, and various bric a brac she had collected throughout the years. She methodically organized the pile, for the tenth time, probably. She had lost count. Her mind wandered to the vision she had earlier, after she had collapsed.

_Surreal stood in a dark place full of mists and shadow, and wondered if this was the misty place Daemon had mentioned briefly to her long ago, when Jaenelle was still alive and he had gone into that deep, dark place where Witch dwelled to save her after a brutal rape that very nearly killed her. She took a step forward and spun slowly, looking around, and high, way high up above her she caught the faint outline of a web, dark and glittering. The Black web, where those who wore the Black jewels could descend within themselves and their reserves of power. The misty place was much, much lower, and if she bothered to stop and think about it, the sheer depth should have killed her._

_“A dream cannot kill you, young one,” a sepulchral voice intoned. Surreal spun and immediately recognized the woman in front of her. Helaenah._

_She had ebony colored skin, black hair done up in braids, wrapped around her head like a coronet, and indeed a small crown of gold leaves sat nestled amongst her braids, three small Black jewels glittering in a light she could not see. Her eyes were golden, similar to that of the long lived races like Eyriens and Hayllians, but were brighter, her pupils an odd shape that she could not make out. Perhaps the dark-skinned, golden-eyed, long-lived races were descendents of Helaenah and her people._

_Witch wore a dress of golden thread that gleamed, the folds and drapes wrapped around her in a regal, queenly manner. Idly, Surreal wondered if she had been a Queen while she was alive. A thick gold torque wrapped around her neck, shaped like a dragon, with a large, Black jewel held tightly in the dragon’s mouth._

_“I’m dreaming?” Surreal asked, foolishly. Helaenah smiled, and Surreal’s heart fluttered. The woman was stunning, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw and proud nose, and thick, full lips, painted lightly with gold. She had golden paint on her eyelids as well, and Surreal wondered if the woman liked gold, or if it was a part of her people’s culture. She did not feel like it was appropriate to ask._

_“Yes, child, you are dreaming.”_

_“Why am I here? Is this the misty place?” Witch looked around, idly, as if she just now noticed where she was, and was not particularly concerned._

_“I suppose that is one name for this place. But more importantly, it is the home of Witch, of Dreams Made Flesh. You knew her as Jaenelle, but Witch has had many incarnations. I am one of them.” Helaenah lightly linked her fingers together in front of her, ethereal in her beauty and power._

_“But why am I here?”_

_“Because I brought you here. The tangled web set in my workroom triggered when you walked in. I needed to speak with you, to meet the witch I had dreamed about for so long and spent so much time researching an answer for.”_

_“And what is your impression?” Surreal asked, a slight challenge in her voice. Was Helaenah going to withdraw her help if she found Surreal lacking? Helaenah laughed, her voice echoing with black and gold lights._

_“That I was right to do so. Your death would have been such a waste. Of course, all of the Mother’s creatures do eventually return to her Darkness, and in some cases are reborn into the Light, but you are not done, yet. Your story is not over, and there are people who still depend on you. You cannot be left to waste away under a mountain, thinking that your only purpose was to birth a child that was not yours.” Helaenah stepped closer to Surreal and grasped her fingers. Surreal looked down and saw long, shiny black nails. She knew what those nails were hiding. The snaketooth on her right ring finger._

_“The potion will allow you to become someone else, while still being yourself. The Self will remain unchanged, while the Chalice will transform. Your new appearance will hide you from those who think they are trying to help you, but whose interference will only lead to your demise. No matter their caste or rank, they will not see who you were, only who you are._

_“But you must use caution. You must only take it when you are away from those possessing the darkest jewels. The transformation will cause ripples amongst the darkest webs and in this place, and you do not want a Black-jewelled Warlord Prince investigating the cause.” Surreal nodded, then frowned._

_“How far is far enough?”_

_“Go to the Realm of Light. The sick taint has been gone for some time now, and the land has begun to heal.”_

_“Terreille? What about the people? Have they begun to heal?”_

_“The wounds that the Blood carry take longer to scar and fade. They still remember a time of fear and corruption, but like the land, they, too, have begun to heal. In fact, your presence there will help the healing process.”_

_“How? I’m not a Queen, or a Priestess, or a Healer, or a Black Widow. I have no influence.” Helaenah smiled, her gold-tinted lips spreading prettily._

_“Child, how young you are. You will learn in time that Caste does not determine one’s importance. Now, take my gift, and go. Your web of dreams has begun to unravel, and you must follow the threads to their conclusion. Find your happiness, find your purpose, for it is not here, and know that I am with you.” Helaenah leaned forward, and bent slightly -Surreal did not realize just how tall Witch was- and kissed her forehead._

The dream faded and Surreal awoke in Helaenah’s old workroom, the bowl of golden liquid swirling idly on the worn, pocked counter.

Surreal stared at the pile of belongings again and vanished it, storing it away in the space-between-space that all members of the Blood could access. She had packed her things, and now all she needed to do was explain to Little Jaenelle why she was leaving. She wanted to just write a letter, but that would be too easy, and she didn’t think Little Jaenelle would understand, at least not until she was much older.

She had already written a letter to Daemon, and it sat on the coffee table, cream stationery sealed with gray wax. If she tried to speak with him face-to-face, she feared he would lock her away. He seemed determined to make sure that they were one little happy family, without actually caring if she was happy. As much as she loved the Warlord Prince, she would not put it past him to try and lock her up to keep a mother around for his daughter. She had no doubt in her mind that for Little Jaenelle, Daemon would destroy his entire family for her happiness and safety.

Walking the corridors of the Keep, she cast out her senses, a wide net, searching for Little Jaenelle. She was currently outside, in the forest that abutted the mountain. And she wasn’t alone.

It did not take Surreal long to find her. She was playing with a young unicorn. An Opal-jewelled Warlord Prince. Well, that would make things a bit more complicated.

“Jaenelle, Sweetheart,” Surreal called. It had been so long since she spoke to her daughter, let alone said the girl’s name. Little Jaenelle’s head popped up and swung around to face Surreal, a bright grin on her lovely face, her sapphire blue eyes practically sparkling.

“Mother!” Little Jaenelle got up, absently wiping the dirt off her dress and ran to Surreal, her arms out. Surreal bent down to pick up the girl and swung her up high, resting Little Jaenelle’s weight on her hip. The Kindred Warlord Prince stamped a foot and eyed her suspiciously.

Taking that mental step to the side, Surreal said to the unicorn, _*Go find something else to do for fifteen minutes. If you find a reason to object, you can take it up with her father.*_ Surreal hated using Daemon’s Black-jewelled power against other people. She was normally the type of woman to make threats under her own power, and usually it was good enough. But she had been absent for so long, that of course her sudden interest would be met with suspicion.

 _*I will,*_ was all he said before trotting off in the direction of the Keep. Surreal frowned. He was no doubt going to report to Daemon, or some other male. She let out a small snarl of frustration.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” Little Jaenelle asked, her small head on Surreal’s shoulder, absently playing with a lock of Surreal’s hair. Surreal turned to the daughter that she desperately wished was hers and sighed. Absently, she began walking.

“I have something to tell you, Sweetheart, and you won’t like it.”

“What is it? Am I in trouble?”

“No, Baby, you aren’t in trouble.”

“Are you sick? You look like your tummy hurts.” Surreal’s mouth twitched up a fraction.

“Sort of. Sweetheart, have you spoken to that woman again? Your Mama?” Little Jaenelle was quiet for a few moments, not looking up at Surreal, twirling her hair in her tiny fingers.

“Baby, you can answer me, I told you that you weren’t in trouble,” Surreal assured.

“Yes,” Little Jaenelle’s voice was small and quiet.

“What do you talk about?”

“We talk about Craft, Papa, the friends I’m making, you sometimes. She says that she wishes she could be with me and Papa.” The knife twisted in her gut and Surreal had to take deep even breaths for a few moments until the pain subsided. She decided to ignore that last part.

“What does she say about me? Your Mama?” Little Jaenelle got quiet again, and buried her face in Surreal’s neck. Surreal poked her lightly and Little Jaenelle squirmed, but did not lift her head.

Deeper into the woods now, Surreal stopped walking, and in one motion, perhaps not as smooth as it would be if she ate regularly and were at her usual strength, she sat cross-legged in the dirt path, Jaenelle in her lap. Surreal pulled Little Jaenelle close and rested her head on the girl’s dark locks.

“What does she say about me, Sweetheart? You can tell me. I won’t be upset.” Little Jaenelle began to sniffle, the signs that she was fighting back tears evident.

“She says that you have to leave. She says you’re gonna leave me and Papa.” Little Jaenelle’s sobs made it hard for her to speak. Surreal rubbed the girl’s back in soothing circles.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart. It’s okay.” The words were meaningless, and if she were being honest with herself, not entirely true. Sure, she hoped everything would at least eventually be okay for Little Jaenelle, but she knew that as things stood now, and how they would be after she left, Little Jaenelle would not be okay. But she has her Papa to care for her and love her unconditionally. And her Mama can speak with her while she dreams and soothe her hurts.

“Is it true? Are you gonna leave me and Papa? Are you gonna go somewhere far away?” Surreal sighed. Jaenelle’s sobs had not subsided, and Surreal was sure the little girl knew the answer, but she responded anyway.

“Yes, Baby. I’m leaving. I don’t want to, but I’m needed elsewhere. Other people need me to help them. Do you understand?” Jaenelle didn’t speak for a moment, still crying.

“Are you gonna come back? Am I ever going to see you again?” Surreal’s already broken heart fractured some more.

“No, Baby, I’m not coming back, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never see you again.” Truthfully, Surreal didn’t know if she’d ever see Daemon or Little Jaenelle again. Maybe, years later, after she had time to heal and grow and perhaps find her purpose, she would be able to see her husband and the daughter she bore him again without wanting to crawl into a hole and disappear.

“Can I come visit you?”

“I don’t know, Sweetheart. I don’t think so. Where I’m going may not be safe for you, and your Papa would not want you to go there.” That was the truth. Terreille had been at the core of Dorothea and Hekatah’s corruption for over a thousand years.

And although Helaenah had said that Terreille was beginning to heal, and she knew firsthand that Jaenelle had purged the Realms of Dorothea and Hekatah’s direct influence, Surreal had a feeling that it would take time for the corrupted ways of the Blood to die, and for the older ways to resurface. A feeling resonated deep within her, and she knew in her gut that she was right, and that her presence in Terreille would help speed the process, at least in some small way.

Helaenah’s voice drifted through her mind, _Your web of dreams has begun to unravel, and you must follow the threads to their conclusion. Find your happiness, find your purpose, for it is not here, and know that I am with you._ A small sense of peace settled through her. She was making the right decision. It was hard, unbearably hard, but she had to do this, for herself.

“Sweetheart, what I’m about to say is very important, and I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay? Can you do that for me?” Little Jaenelle nodded solemnly, her large Sapphire eyes staring up at her, unblinking.

“I have to leave. Today. And I can’t tell you or Papa where I’m going. I have to leave because I’m sick, here. And if I stay, I’ll only get sicker. You’ll see me again, but not for a very long time. I won’t look like I do now, so you may not recognize me.” In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Surreal pulled a sapphire blue ribbon from Little Jaenelle’s hair.

“Even if you don’t recognize me, you’ll know it’s me because I’ll have this.” Surreal showed her the ribbon. Jaenelle stared at the ribbon, as if trying to memorize every detail about it.

“Good, remember it. Know this as well,” She turned Little Jaenelle’s face up to hers, “I gave birth to you. But you were never mine. You were a gift, for your Mama and your Papa, because your Mama died before you were born. Your Mama and Papa both wished very, very hard for you, but your Mama couldn’t have babies.

“When she died, she wanted your Papa to be happy again, so she wished that someone could give him the baby she couldn’t. And that’s where I come in. Your Mama was so powerful, she wished a part of her spirit in me. And your Papa was so sad. But he was happy when you were born, because you looked so much like your Mama.” Tears trailed down Surreal’s cheeks as she stared into the Sapphire blue eyes of her friend.

“I want you to know that even though you were for your Mama and your Papa, I still love you, and wish that you were mine. No matter what anyone says to you or to your Papa, I love you both, so much. Do you understand, Sweetheart?”

“Yes, I understand,” she touched the blue ribbon, “I’ll look for this.” Surreal gave her a watery smile.

“Good. Your Papa may be sad or even angry for a while, but he will get better, because he has you. And your Uncle Lucivar and Aunt Marian and your cousins, and our friends from all over Khaeleer. And you may be sad and angry at me for a while, but you will have your Papa, and your family and friends.” Little Jaenelle nodded, her eyes dry, no longer crying. Surreal's tears kept flowing silently down her face, wetting her and Little Jaenelle’s clothes.

She had not known how hard this would be, how much she would want to stay, even if she knew that the girl she cradled in her arms was not hers and never would be, even if she knew that staying here would kill her, in both body and spirit. She wanted to stay and watch Little Jaenelle grow into a beautiful, powerful young woman. She wanted to be a real member of the SaDiablo family, not just in name, and not because she married Daemon. She wanted to be accepted for who she was, unconditionally, and not feel like a fraud every waking moment.

Helaenah’s voice drifted through her mind and stilled the swirling doubts and impossible wishes. She was needed. In Terreille. Someone there would need her help. She had already helped Daemon overcome his grief for Jaenelle by giving him the daughter he had always wanted. She wasn’t needed here. She wasn’t wanted here. And once, that thought might have fuelled the ever-growing darkness in her heart, but now, it only lightened her emotional burden.

Surreal stood up with Little Jaenelle in her arms and began walking back to the Keep. They didn’t have to walk far before they came across the unicorn standing on the outskirts of the woods, stamping a hoof impatiently, openly glaring at Surreal for taking his charge. In a rare, and probably final act of motherly protectiveness, Surreal snarled at him and let out a wave of Gray power at the Warlord Prince. He snorted in defiance, but took a step back, acquiescing to her power. Sometimes she hated the pointless displays that Warlord Princes liked to perform on others, especially if they thought they had some sort of claim on a person.

 _*Here, she’s tired, take her back to the Keep and make sure she gets some food and a nap.*_ Surreal swung the girl up on top of the unicorn, stroking her face gently. He bobbed a head to her and trotted off to the Keep.

Surreal watched them go, her heart heavy, but not as heavy as it had been. She felt lighter, lighter than she had felt in years.

Slowly, almost strolling, she walked to the landing pad, ignoring the coach that sat ready to ferry passengers through the spirals of colored webs that stretched across the Realms, like invisible roads in the space-between-space that all Blood could travel. She latched onto a Green strand and launched herself onto the Green Web, headed to her new life.


End file.
